


Fix you

by AFugazzi



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Summer Camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 02:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFugazzi/pseuds/AFugazzi
Summary: Harry is a camp counsellor at a place where they try to “fix” gay people. He’s always been very sure of his orientation until he meets Zayn.





	Fix you

**Author's Note:**

> ❤ Hope you like it!  
> Give it kudos if you enjoy it ❤  
> Have wonderful day and a peaceful night!!

It was always hot down here in the summer. There was almost no shade in the main part of the camp, and the sun hung directly overhead in a grey-blue sky, beating down onto the low buildings.  
It was move-in day, and Harry had been working since nine that morning: directing cars into spaces, carrying suitcases, smiling. He was very careful always to be smiling. The kids and their parents were depending on him; as a counsellor, it was his job to set an example and make everybody feel comfortable.  
Across the main field, Will, one of his co-workers, was talking to an Asian couple: an uncomfortable-looking man and his wife, who was trying to hide her tears in a tissue. Their son was a short, slender boy, standing pigeon-toed and looking about at his surroundings with frank distaste – and maybe not a small amount of fear. Fear was normal on move-in, among the kids themselves and their parents. Even when it wasn’t baking hot, the air would seem to tighten over the camp and make it difficult to breathe.  
But Harry understood. He had worked here full-time for eighteen months now. He knew how confused these kids were. They were lost; their lives gone in the wrong direction. He understood and he sympathised. He always did, with every new arrival; they never moved him any less even after all this time. Looking at this boy, who was now staring at the ground, he wished, like he always did, that he could tell him everything was going to be all right, that by the time he left here things would make sense again. But he knew that at the moment, the boy most likely wouldn’t believe him.  
An SUV pulled in through the main gate. He beckoned to the driver, waving them towards the empty grass where they could park. He spared a quick glance back over at Will to make sure he was still handling the other family. The boy looked up and Harry caught his eye, gave him an encouraging smile. The boy’s lip curled and he turned away. Harry shook his head slightly. You couldn’t win them all over at this stage. He turned back to help the people climbing out of the SUV. It was coming up to two in the afternoon, and families were starting to arrive in a steady stream. It was so hot. Harry could feel sweat creeping slowly down his back under his t-shirt, sticking the fabric to his skin.  
*  
The camp’s founder, Bobby, gave a short speech welcoming all the kids and their families, and then Harry’s uncle, James, stepped up onto the stage to explain how the treatment at the camp would work. The whole therapy programme was his uncle’s brainchild, after all. James flashed Harry a quick smile over the heads of the audience, and Harry smiled back, feeling proud.  
He did, however, tune out the words as his uncle began to talk. He had heard this many times before; he knew the whole speech by heart.  
His eyes caught again on the slim Asian boy he had seen earlier, sitting with his parents near to where Harry stood. He realised, now he was closer, just how young the boy looked. A few times before there had been kids at the camp of only fifteen or sixteen, and it always broke Harry’s heart to think that such young people could get so mixed up in their lives. Maybe this boy was another one of those lost young ones.  
However old he was, though, the boy was acting like he didn’t want to be here. He was half turned away from the stage, pushing sweaty bangs off his face and blowing out his cheeks impatiently. Bravado, Harry thought. It was common in new arrivals. Teenagers thinking they knew it all: it had happened from the beginning of time. They didn’t like having anyone tell them they were wrong about anything, and especially not something this serious.  
The boy glanced up at that moment and caught Harry’s eye.  
Harry smiled at him again.  
The boy glared, and then turned away with a sigh.  
*  
“Well done, everyone,” said James later, addressing the gathered counsellors over their dinner. “Another successful move-in day.”  
The families had been given a tour of the camp and eaten early together, and then the parentshad finally left – most of them in tears, in spite of reassurances from the counsellors – and the kids were given a few hours of supervised free time before bed. It was good to get them onto a schedule as soon as possible. Now the staff were taking an opportunity to relax before going to bed themselves. The programme started officially tomorrow morning.  
James finished congratulating them on their combined efforts, and retired to his office. He usually ate in there alone. As one of the camp’s two CEOs, he was always busy. He gave Harry’s shoulder a quick squeeze as he passed; a familiar, grounding gesture. Harry gave his uncle a quick smile.  
“Anyone spot any troublemakers?” Will asked, as they ate.  
“There’s one girl, Sasha I think – very short hair, like a man’s,” said Chelsea, the camp’s receptionist. “She cursed at me when I asked for her name.”  
“I noticed one,” Harry said. “Asian guy, very short and skinny. I don’t know his name. He was messing around during the introductions.”  
“Yeah, I saw him,” said Will. “I took his case to his room and he didn’t seem happy.”  
“What was his name?” asked another counsellor, Amy.  
Will grunted. “Can’t remember,” he said. “We’ll meet them all tomorrow and get a better feel for them.”   
Harry nodded, pouring himself more water. The sun was finally beginning to sink, making the camp outside the windows look pale and ghostly. It was familiar, the sounds of the counsellors’ voices and the buzzing of the insects round the outside lights. It was home, and more importantly, it was the home of these kids for the next six weeks, and Harry knew they all had a lot of work to do.  
*  
“Good morning, everyone!” Harry announced cheerfully, clapping his hands together.  
Twenty pairs of tired, dull eyes blinked back at him.  
It was the first day of the programme and they were starting early. Harry was leading the first group session. The kids were sitting in a half circle in front of him. Most of them looked slightly shell-shocked, now it had really begun to sink in where they were and why. A few – Harry noticed Sasha, the girl with short hair that Chelsea had mentioned, and two boys, the Asian kid and another one – looked defiant. One or two looked scared. All normal, all to be expected.  
“Once again, welcome to your home for the next six weeks.” Harry had done this so many times in the past eighteen months that it was second nature at this point. “For those that didn’t meet me yesterday, my name is Harry Styles and I’m one of your camp counsellors. We’re all here to help and take care of you, so don’t feel scared to talk to us or ask us anything you need to.”  
He looked around the circle. Some heads were nodding.  
“This is your first group therapy session, but don’t worry, we aren’t going to do anything too heavy today so you can chill out a bit.” He grinned at his audience. He got a couple of small smiles in return. “Today we’re just going to introduce ourselves, talk about ourselves a little bit, and then maybe if we have time and you guys want to, we might talk about why you’re here and what you hope to gain from your stay – but don’t worry,” he added, noticing, as he’d expected, anxious looks on most of the faces in the circle. “It’s the first day, like I said, so you’re probably shy and you haven’t had any individual therapy yet to talk about your personal issues, so I’ll understand if you want to sit that part out.” Some of the kids relaxed.  
“Right,” Harry said, grabbing his own chair and sitting down. He liked to be on the same level as the kids; it made things less intimidating for them. Time to get the ball rolling. “Shall we introduce ourselves? Who wants to go first?”  
As he’d expected, no-one raised their hands. He noticed the Asian kid rolling his eyes. Sasha noticed it too, and suppressed a smile. Harry smiled as well; he hadn’t expected anyone to volunteer. “Okay, okay, I see. I’ll go first. And then we’ll just go round the circle, all right?”  
There was more nodding.  
“So. Like I said, I’m Harry, and I’m originally from the UK. I work here as a counsellor full-time. I’m twenty-three and I’ve been here for eighteen months, so I do know what I’m doing.” He smiled around at them. “And yes, as I’m sure some of you already know, I am related to James Horan; he’s my uncle. But don’t worry; I won’t talk to him about you unless I really have to.” That time there were a couple of polite laughs from some of the kids. The Asian boy sighed loudly.  
Harry turned to the kid next to him, a girl with long hair braided into cornrows. “Now you’ve all heard about me, would you like to introduce yourself?”  
The girl nodded nervously and swallowed. “Um, I’m Michelle. I’m from Chicago and I’m eighteen...” They went round most of the half-circle that way, the kids gradually warming up and becoming less nervous about speaking once they realised Harry wasn’t going to ask them about anything pertaining to the treatment. Even Sasha introduced herself without making any trouble. That was the whole idea of this approach, to get the kids calmed down. Some of the other counsellors liked to plunge straight into discussing why they were here, but Harry thought it was better for everyone to be comfortable before he started trying to make them talk about anything serious.  
About half way round, though, one kid got upset. His name was Corey and he was from Alabama. “Are you gonna be able to fix me, sir?” he asked, starting to sound tearful. “Are you gonna make me better?”  
“Well, Corey, I thought we’d let everyone introduce themselves before we get into that –” Harry started, aware that the atmosphere in the room was becoming tense again.  
“I know,” said Corey, eyes shining, “But will you just tell me that you will make me better?"  
The Asian boy laughed loudly surprising everyone.  
“Corey, don’t worry; I can promise you that we will do everything we can to help you with the issues you’re experiencing. You can talk to your individual therapist in more detail later today. And now, as you’ve spoken up,” he nodded to the Asian boy, smiling that well-practised encouraging smile, “Why don’t you go ahead and introduce yourself to everyone now.”  
The boy raised his eyebrows at Harry, as if to say, are you serious?  
The rest of the circle peered round expectantly. Harry cleared his throat gently. “Well? What’s your name?”  
The boy sighed, rolling his eyes again. “Zayn,” he said shortly.  
“And where are you from, Zayn?” Harry asked. He was going to have to keep prompting this one.  
“Washington State,” said the boy grumpily, but without hesitation this time.  
Harry was pleased; he had wondered if Zayn would refuse to answer. “How old are you?” he pressed on.  
“Underage, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Zayn said, sounding bored. Harry blinked at that. Sasha laughed, and then hastily smothered it behind her hand. Harry felt his stomach sink as he realised what Zayn was implying. “That’s not appropriate,” he said, voice serious now. “Please don’t speak that way to me again.”  
Zayn just blew out his cheeks and crossed one leg over the other.  
“How old are you, Zayn?” Harry asked again, as though nothing had happened. In spite of feeling admittedly a little shocked by what Zayn had just suggested, it generally wasn’t a good idea to show that you were provoked by those sorts of things. New arrivals would, from time to time, say inappropriate things, out of fear, or anger, or just plain ignorance about what was proper and what wasn’t.  
“Seventeen,” Zayn said. “Nearly eighteen.”  
Harry smiled at him, but only got a steely glare in return. This boy was going to take a bit of work, he thought. “Thank you, Zayn,” he said, deciding to let things go for now and return his focus to the other kids. “And now,” he went on, gesturing to the girl sitting next to Corey, who had been passed over when Harry started speaking to Zayn, “Let’s come back to you. Why don’t you introduce yourself?”  
*  
By the time the end of the week had rolled around, the temperatures during the daytimes had risen even higher. This wasn’t unusual. When Harry had first moved down from the UK to take up his uncle’s offer of training for a job at the camp, he had thought several times he might die from the heat. Now, though, although it wasn’t pleasant, he had learned to live with it. It was part of life, part of what made this place home.  
The evenings were the nicest times, when the sun went in and a soft lilac twilight hung over the camp, the air still warm but no longer oppressive. There was a broad natural river about two hundred yards from the main buildings, on the edge of the camp’s property. It was often used for swimming during recreation, and after lights-out on Friday night, Harry took advantage of his free time to walk down there. It was cooler near the water. He sat down on the bank and stretched out his legs on the grass, listening to the click-click-click of cicadas in the long grasses beyond the camp ground. The breeze from the water was soothing against his sweat-salty skin, and he felt his muscles begin to relax.  
It had been a busy first week, but that was normal. Most of the kids were gradually beginning to open up to their individual counsellors, although Harry’s group therapy could still be totally silent when a difficult subject was broached. Corey had told everyone about how he was supposed to take over his father’s local business back home, and if he couldn’t sort out his problem, he wouldn’t be a fit heir to the company. He was upset, but seemed more relaxed after getting things off his chest. Sasha had cursed at Chelsea again and been banned from the trip into the nearby town on Thursday as punishment. A small boy called Pat had confessed to looking at homosexual pornography.  
Harry had found those kinds of confessions shocking when he first started working at the camp, although his uncle had warned him that he would hear them; but now they didn’t bother him, they just made him sad.  
Zayn was now completely refusing to participate in group sessions, and merely sat there looking bored. Harry had talked to the boy’s individual counsellor, Diane, who said that he was silent or mono-syllabic in their private sessions too. She said that at this stage she wasn’t worried, just concerned about what he might be bottling up.  
It was a feeling Harry shared. He had to admit the boy intrigued him. He wanted to know what Zayn’s story was. It was often this way with the ones who resisted the programme; Harry found himself wanting to help them even more than the others.  
Sighing, Harry stood up and dusted off his pants. Tomorrow was a half day because it was Saturday, but that didn’t mean he could sit out here by the river for hours. It was beginning to get darker and he hadn’t brought a flashlight. He headed back towards the dark shapes and circles of light that were the camp buildings.  
As he came up towards the storage rooms on the edge of the camp, he heard a strange, scuffling noise. He paused, listening, but heard only the cicadas. Just an animal probably.  
He started walking again, but as he did, one of the motion-activated lights on the building lit up, flooding the whole area with light. Harry blinked, dazzled – and then spotted a figure pressed up against the wall, a boy, and someone else – another boy, God help him, it was another boy – on his knees in front of him.  
“What are you doing?” Harry shouted.  
The boy against the wall spasmed with shock and there was a grunt and muffled curses.  
Harry rushed towards the two figures, horrified. This kind of thing had only happened once before in his whole time at the camp, and it hadn’t been him who had discovered the behaviour that time; it had been another counsellor. He had never had to deal with this situation before, and if truth be told he didn’t want to get near either of the boys, not after what he’d just witnessed, but he knew it was important to make sure this stopped as soon as possible.  
“Step away from each other!” he shouted as he approached. There was more cursing and the boy on the floor staggered to his feet.  
It was Zayn. Harry faltered at the sight of him. Zayn’s face was lit up brilliantly in the light, damp and shining with sweat; he was shirtless, and he was grinning. Grinning at Harry as though he was proud of himself.  
Harry couldn’t help staring. Zayn’s lips were red and swollen, his pupils dilated until his eyes were big black holes in his face. There were bruises the shape of fingers on his shoulders, on his exposed hip-bones; a scratch under one dark nipple. And it was obvious in the light that he was aroused inside his jeans.  
Zayn cleared his throat, and Harry realised with shock what he was doing – staring at the erection of a boy he was supposed to be treating for homosexual behaviour.  
Bewildered, he looked back up at Zayn’s face, as though the boy might be able to tell him what on earth had possessed him to do that – and saw Zayn smirking at him, his expression now dirty and... knowing. Harry shuddered, helplessly, as he realised what exactly Zayn must be thinking.  
At exactly that moment, Will and two other counsellors rounded the corner. “What’s happening – oh my God!” Will yelled, spotting Harry, the shirtless Zayn, and the other boy who was, Harry realised, still cowering against the wall with his pants undone.  
“I caught them –” Harry stammered, still staring at Zayn’s smirking face, somehow unable to look away. “I caught them – I caught them –”  
The other counsellors hurried to the boys, restraining them. The boy against the wall came to life suddenly, and started shouting, but Zayn didn’t struggle at all. He just gave Harry a nod as he let the counsellor pin his arms gently but firmly behind his back.  
A hand grasped Harry’s shoulder and Harry jumped, feeling the touch like an electric shock. It was Will. “It’s okay, Harry,” he said. His eyes were big and concerned. “It’s okay – it’s over now, it’s okay.”  
*  
When it was really, finally over, once the two boys had been sent back to their rooms and told they would be dealt with in the morning, Harry returned to his room and stepped into the shower. The water was cool and he stayed still for a long time, not washing, just letting it run over his skin and away down the drain.  
In all the commotion, he had been able to pull himself together and be professional – but as soon as he was naked in the shower, he could see everything again, vividly.  
Zayn.  
Zayn on his knees in front of the other boy, shirtless; the movement of muscles in his shoulders, the dip in his lower back. Zayn standing up in front of him, drunken eyes and mouth bright red and smiling. Zayn obviously hard in his pants. The way Harry could see the shape of Zayn’s dick through the denim; could feel the pressure almost as though it was his own.  
*  
Harry was weak with relief when Sunday morning dawned and it was time to go to church. All of Saturday had been the same: his brain replaying and replaying those awful images of Zayn from Friday night. Harry was sure it was because of how disturbing it had all been. It was like that time when he was seven and saw a dead bird in the street, decayed so the spine stuck up out of the feathers into the air. He hadn’t been able to forget about it for a week and had had nightmares. This was surely the same – but even so, he was grateful to go to church, to clear his mind and pray and think about what was right.  
He returned from the service feeling much more clear-headed – so much so, in fact, that when his uncle informed all the counsellors at dinner that Zayn and the other boy, a kid named Sam, would be allowed to remain at the camp, with some privileges revoked, he didn’t feel particularly uncomfortable about it. In fact, he found himself almost looking forward to seeing the boy, hoping more than ever that he could get through to Zayn and make him see how lost he was in life.  
*  
Monday morning, however, was a different story.  
Zayn arrived for the group therapy session much earlier than everybody else, while Harry was still arranging the chairs in the usual semi-circle. Harry somehow felt his presence in the doorway without seeing him: a very particular kind of prickling at the back of his neck that told Harry not only that he was being watched, but also who was watching.  
“Zayn,” he said, carefully keeping his voice neutral. “What are you doing here? The group session doesn’t start for another ten minutes.”  
“I wanted to talk to you alone,” said Zayn breezily. He was leaning against the doorframe, one slim leg crossed over the other. He was wearing jeans, and Harry caught himself wondering, inexplicably and horrifyingly, if they were the same jeans he’d had on Friday night.  
He forced the thought out of his brain. The boy had made a mistake, but that was why these kids were here: they had all made mistakes. It was Harry’s job to help them. He shouldn’t allow his own feelings about what he’d seen get in the way of that.  
“Okay,” he said, sitting down in one of the chairs and motioning for Zayn to sit too. “What did you want to talk to me about?”  
Zayn closed the door and came further into the room, but remained standing. “I wanted to apologise to you,” he said, “For what you saw on Friday.”  
Harry was surprised. He had wondered if the events of Friday night were what Zayn wanted to talk about, but he hadn’t expected an apology.  
“Zayn, you don’t need to say sorry to me,” he said. “I’ve been here for a while; I’m not easy to shock.” It was important to emphasise that to the boy, he thought. It was true, wasn’t it? “I just want you to understand what you did wrong and why, and focus on getting back on board with the programme.”  
“Okay,” Zayn said, nodding. He sounded sincere. Harry felt hopeful – but then Zayn looked up at him from beneath his eyelashes and said, “I just wanted to make sure it hadn’t... unsettled you.”  
Harry opened his mouth – and then realised there was nothing he could say to that. Once again his brain filled with the images of Zayn on that Friday night – half-naked and slick with sweat and aroused – images of the boy who was standing right in front of him now, blinking up at him with the most calculated of innocent expressions.  
“Zayn,” he started, with absolutely no idea what he was going to say – but at that moment the door swung open to reveal Pat, Corey and Michelle, and more kids behind them, all coming for the group therapy session.  
Zayn slipped into a chair at one end of the semi-circle. “Thanks, Harry,” he said softly, and smiled.  
*  
The boy was toying with him. Harry knew it.  
For the rest of the second week, Zayn was the picture of sincerity and effort. He engaged in the group therapy sessions. He asked questions; he nodded along with what Harry told them. He hesitantly, nervously, told a story about the first time he felt himself attracted to another man, when he was fourteen. His brown eyes filled with tears and he had to break off a few times to take shuddering breaths. When other kids got upset telling similar stories, he comforted them. Diane said he was completely different in individual sessions and opened up about his family, his life, his past. He even participated in some of the recreational activities, playing soccer and going down to the river to swim.  
Harry worried silently to himself. He could tell Zayn was faking. He would have been able to tell even without that little encounter on Monday morning before the group session – Zayn was too perfect, trying too hard – but what Zayn had said about the events of Friday night confirmed it. Zayn knew Harry had been upset by what he’d seen, and he was deliberately making sure Harry couldn’t ignore him. Moreover, he wasn’t really trying hard to go along with the programme and better himself. It was all an act so he wouldn’t get kicked out.  
None of the other counsellors noticed this, of course. They remarked how much better Zayn seemed to be doing. Diane especially was thrilled. “He’s a good boy,” she said fondly, and even patted Zayn on the head a few times when she passed him outside. Zayn would simply smile sweetly back at her.  
But Harry couldn’t get Zayn out of his mind. He was frustrated, and also genuinely concerned for the boy. In all his time at the camp, he’d always done his best with every kid who’d come through the gates, and Zayn should be no different. There had to be a way to really connect with him, make the message of the programme sink in.  
On Saturday, the half day, Harry had to drive into the nearby town and pick up some supplies. Normally food was delivered to the camp, but there had been a mix-up and some of the products ordered hadn’t arrived. Harry was heading for his car when he spotted Zayn, not participating in any recreational activities now, just sitting on the doorstep of one of the bedrooms, drawing in the dirt with a stick.  
Maybe this was an opportunity to try and engage with the boy. It wasn’t unusual for kids to help out with duties around the camp. So he approached and called, “Hey, Zayn!”  
Zayn’s head shot up. He looked genuinely surprised when he saw Harry and Harry couldn’t help feeling slightly pleased about that. It was nice for him to be the one to have the upper hand for a change. Maybe it was a good sign.  
“I’m heading into town to pick up a few things,” he said. “You want to come help, if you’re not doing anything?”  
Zayn blinked at him. For a moment Harry thought he was going to say no and felt oddly embarrassed – but then the boy shrugged and stood up.  
“Yeah, okay,” he said.  
They walked to Harry’s car in silence. It was another hot day, and totally still. The air around the camp seemed almost stagnant.  
“Watch the seatbelts,” Harry warned as they got in. “They get hot in the sun.”  
Zayn said nothing, but strapped himself in.  
They drove into town and shopped, still without speaking unless they needed to. Harry took the opportunity just to watch Zayn. The boy had said he was nearly eighteen, but he looked younger. His arms and legs looked thin enough to break at any moment, but somehow he didn’t seem fragile. He was graceful in a very self-aware way, as though he knew every implication of every movement he made. His eyes were warm, the colour of golden syrup or hard sugar candy. He was polite to the cashier in the shop, calling her “ma’am”.  
They were driving back to the camp before Harry felt it was a good time to broach the subject of Zayn’s engagement, or lack of it, with the programme.  
“I get the impression,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road so Zayn wouldn’t feel pressured – and also, if he was honest with himself, so he wouldn’t have to watch the boy’s face as he listened – “That you don’t particularly want to be here at the camp.”  
Zayn made a soft noise, impossible to interpret. “What gives you that idea?” he said.  
Something about that made Harry feel irritated. “I’m not stupid, Zayn,” he said. “I can tell the way you act in our group therapy sessions isn’t genuine. And it’s not like I’ve forgotten what you said to me at the beginning of the week.”  
There was a pause. Harry suddenly felt a flash of apprehension. His words seemed to swell in the air and push against the sides of the already stuffy car. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Maybe he shouldn’t have given any indication that Zayn was getting to him. And then –  
“Yeah,” Zayn said. He actually snorted. “Yeah, you’re right, I don’t want to be here. I don’t care about your fucking programme, I think it’s bullshit.”  
“Please don’t use that language –” Harry started to say, but Zayn ignored him: “You can’t cure someone of being gay; it just doesn’t work like that.”  
“Well, you seem very sure about that,” Harry said, voice rising in spite of himself, “But the programme has been running for five years and in that time we’ve had an extremely high success rate –”  
Zayn laughed out loud that time. “Really? Of course people tell you that you’ve ‘converted’ them – because they’re scared of being gay themselves, or just so they can get the hell out of here and away from you lot. But just because you want to believe that you can feed someone some pseudo-science bullshit and they’ll magically become straight, because you’re all scared of being gay yourselves or something –”  
“That’s completely inappropriate,” Harry shouted. He was startled by how angry he felt. He actually had to stop the car, right there in the middle of the empty road, because his hands were shaking on the wheel. “And so was what you said to me on Monday. You have no business making comments like that to me or anyone else here, and our own healthy sexual behaviour has absolutely nothing to do with –”  
“Healthy sexual behaviour?” Zayn sneered. “Was it healthy sexual behaviour when you caught me blowing Sam and you couldn’t stop staring at me?”  
It was still hot in the car, hotter than ever, but Harry suddenly felt very, very cold.  
“I don’t know what you’re –”  
“I’m not stupid either, Harry,” Zayn said. “You think I didn’t notice the way you were looking? Did you wish it was you, Harry? Did you wish I was sucking your cock behind the dorms?”  
“Don’t say disgusting things!” Harry shouted. “That’s –”  
“Were you jealous it wasn’t you?” Zayn continued, as though Harry hadn’t even spoken. “Do you want me to push you up against a wall and get on my knees in front of you? Did you think about it afterwards, how my mouth would look on your cock, how it would feel?”  
“Stop –”  
“You can’t tell me what to do. Just because you’re some bullshit counsellor at some stupid camp doesn’t mean you’ve got any authority over me. I could do it now, couldn’t I, Harry? There’s no-one here. Do you want me to suck you off? I’ll do it. Are you getting hard thinking about it, Harry?” And Zayn actually reached over, grabbing at Harry’s crotch.  
Harry cried out and flung him away, grabbing both of the boy’s wrists and pinning him at arm’s length up against the opposite wall of the car.  
“Stop!” he yelled. “You stop this right now. As soon as we get back to the camp we are going straight to main office and they will hear about this. We can call your parents and have you removed.”  
“But you won’t do that, will you, Harry?” Zayn said. “Because you know I’m right.”  
Harry breathed out hard through his nose, trying to centre himself, trying to think of what was good and right and appropriate – but he suddenly became aware of where his hands were gripping Zayn’s wrists; the feeling of the light sweat on the boy’s skin, the boy’s pulse beating under his palms.  
“Your behaviour is completely unacceptable,” he said, letting go of Zayn’s wrists and settling heavily back into the driver’s seat of the car. “I’m not in any way attracted to you, and it’s grotesque of you to imply –”  
“It’s okay though, Harry,” Zayn said – and suddenly his voice was different. Almost... concerned? “If you are.”  
Something tightened in Harry’s stomach, just under his lungs.  
“This conversation is over,” he said stiffly. “We are going back to the camp and that is the last time, the very last time, I ever want to hear you talk this way. Do you understand, Zayn?”  
“Of course,” Zayn murmured, suddenly demure, wriggling back in his seat. “Of course.”  
Harry started the engine again and they drove off. He told himself he was just keeping his eyes on the road, and that it would only encourage Zayn’s behaviour if he looked at the boy at all.  
Back at the camp they unloaded the shopping. Zayn was acting sweet again, helping him carry the heavy boxes. Their hands brushed lifting one out of the trunk, and Harry felt the touch of Zayn’s fingers through his whole body.  
As soon as they’d finished, Harry mumbled an excuse and locked himself in his room. He told himself that the boy was being ridiculous. He wasn’t attracted to Zayn. He was normal, healthy man. Of course he wasn’t attracted to Zayn.  
But that night he dreamt of Zayn on his knees at the back of the camp. The dampness of sweat on the boy’s chest, his bruised lips, the shape of Zayn’s dick in his jeans. Harry woke up early in the morning, hard inside his sleep pants, trembling and fighting panic.  
*  
His mother called, the next day. Harry was in his room; he hadn’t been out all day, not even for church. His uncle was away at a conference for Christian groups, so there was nobody to notice he hadn’t gone.  
He answered the phone distractedly, without looking at the caller ID. When he heard his mother’s voice – “Hello, darling, I hope this isn’t a bad time” – he suddenly felt so small that he had to sit down heavily on his bed.  
Harry hadn’t seen his mother in two years.  
His parents were religious when Harry was growing up, but liberal; like James had been, before his wife died. It was after her death that his beliefs began to change. When Harry was a teenager and started spending more time with James and attending his uncle’s church, Harry’s parents were worried. When James moved down south to help develop the programme for his friend Bobby’s camp, they made no secret of the fact that they hoped James’s influence on Harry would fade.  
Instead, Harry and James kept in close contact through the internet, and James suggested that instead of college, Harry should think about working with him. As soon as he finished high school, Harry moved down south to live with James, and started training to become a counsellor at his uncle’s camp.  
Within a few months, Harry’s sister started refusing to see him. She said his beliefs made her uncomfortable.  
For a while Harry continued to visit his parents, but the last time he had been home, he had found a website open on his father’s computer offering advice to parents whose children had joined a cult. Harry was wounded and furious; his father embarrassed but insistent that he was just worried and wanted the best for his son. Harry left his parents’ house the next day and hadn’t been back since. His mother was the only one of his immediate family who he still spoke to now.  
“Hi, Mom,” he said softly.  
“Darling.” Her voice was so close, right in his ear. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe she was sitting right next to him – almost. But there was no arm around his shoulder, no soft floral scent of her perfume.  
Harry had always been very close to his mother. James sometimes said that people who couldn’t understand their beliefs were people they were better off without, and Harry could convince himself to feel that way about his father and sister – but not about his mother.  
“How are you, darling?” his mother asked. “It’s been so long since we’ve spoken. Are you well?”  
Was he well? Harry didn’t know. The nauseous feeling of terror he’d felt, realising how aroused he’d been dreaming of Zayn – of a boy – still hadn’t gone away. Harry was beginning to wonder if he really was sick.  
“I’m fine,” he said. Because if his mother knew otherwise, she might tell his father, and his father would think he’d been right all along, that Harry was unhappy in his chosen life. Harry had enough pride not to want that. Besides, he didn’t really know how to explain all the things he was feeling. How unsteady the ground under his feet suddenly seemed. How he’d spent most of the day thinking of Zayn’s eyes, of his voice, of what he’d said in the car.  
“How are you, Mom?” he asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from himself.  
“I’m well,” his mother said. “Your father and I just got back from Florida. We took a vacation there for two weeks.”  
“That’s nice,” said Harry. He wondered if he should care more that he didn’t know anything about his parents’ lives; that he hadn’t known they were planning to go to Florida. That he hadn’t even thought about whether they might be doing things like taking vacations.  
“Are you really all right, darling?” his mother asked. “You sound like you’ve got things on your mind.”  
Could he tell his mother? A small part of Harry – the part that had always missed being a little kid and able to crawl onto his mother’s lap or hide behind her legs when things got overwhelming – wanted to. But he had no idea how, or where, to begin.  
“I’m fine, Mom, really,” he lied – because he couldn’t fool himself into thinking it wasn’t a lie. “I’ve just – got stuff I need to get done at the camp.”  
His mother sighed softly, and Harry realised he probably shouldn’t have mentioned the camp, because she didn’t approve. “Okay, darling,” she said. “I’ll phone you another time then, if you’re busy.”  
Harry didn’t want that. He wanted to say, “Mom, Mom, don’t go. I miss you, Mom.” But instead he just said, “Yeah, okay.”  
“We do love you, darling,” his mother said. “Me and your father. We love you very, very much.”  
“I love you too,” Harry repeated, feeling numb.  
“Goodbye, darling.” The dial tone went before Harry could reply.   
He threw his phone onto the floor.  
*  
That night, Harry prayed harder than he had prayed in a long time.  
Please. Please, help me to remember what is natural and good and right. If this is a test, help me find the strength to pass it, please. Help me to resist temptation. Please, please God.  
*  
Getting back to work on Monday was a struggle. Every smile, every word, felt forced, like Harry’s face had turned to concrete. James was coming back that evening, and Harry found himself wondering if they should talk. His uncle had been a mentor to him for so long, and he was older and wiser; he might be able to help. But the thought of telling his uncle the things he had been thinking and feeling terrified him.  
He felt frightened setting up for group therapy too, no matter how many times he told himself it was ridiculous to be afraid of a seventeen year old boy.  
Zayn came into group therapy meekly, head bowed. So he was doing his sincere act again. Harry wasn’t sure if that was actually worse than Zayn trying to provoke him. For the whole of the morning, he almost wanted to throw something at the boy, or shake him; anything to make Zayn react naturally.  
But the session passed without incident, and after lunch, Harry began feeling a bit better. Maybe it had been stupid to let Zayn rattle him so much. Of course, it was understandable that he had been upset by the things Zayn had said to him; any man would be. But that didn’t mean he had to let it unsettle him to this extent.  
Feeling stronger, Harry took the long walk into town and visited the church. It was quiet in there in the afternoon, with no service on. There was only the low hum of the air conditioning, and an elderly cleaner vacuuming the carpet in the entrance. Harry sat in one of the pews for a while, letting his mind empty.  
This job was bound to be challenging. He’d known that when he signed up. Really, Harry was lucky that so much time had passed before he’d met a kid this difficult to deal with. But Harry knew what right and decent behaviour was; it was his job to teach that to troubled teenagers, for goodness’ sake. And troubled teenagers frequently lashed out when they felt threatened or confused. Zayn must be terrified himself, with what he was going through, realising how wrong the path he had taken in life was. That was obviously why he would attempt to make Harry feel the way he did, to try and reassure himself that he hadn’t made such big mistakes. But it was Harry’s job not to let himself be disturbed. The kids were relying on him.  
He felt much calmer leading the group therapy session on Tuesday. Much more relaxed, more in control. Unfortunately, the subject was a difficult one – potentially dangerous consequences of the homosexual lifestyle – and one girl, Lydia, got upset. As lunchtime came and the group session ended, she was attempting to suppress tears, hand clamped over her mouth and shoulders shaking. Her eyes were leaking, and every so often she let out a little gasp.  
Concerned, Harry held her back when everyone else left for their meal, and asked what the matter was.  
“I – I never thought – about everything we talked about today –” Lydia stammered. “I’m scared.”  
Harry brought her some tissues. “There’s no need to be afraid, Lydia,” he told the now sobbing girl. “Of course some of these things can feel scary to talk about, but that’s why we’re doing it in a group environment, to support each other. You mustn’t feel frightened. And we’re here to help you, to make sure that you have the knowledge to make the right Stylesces and keep yourself safe.”  
Lydia looked up at him, eyes red and soft with tears. “I – but –”   
“What is it?” Harry asked her gently. “You can tell me anything that’s on your mind.”  
“I – sometimes I – I think – what if I can’t do this? What if I can’t stick to the programme?”  
Harry started to speak, but then Lydia blurted out: “My parents – my father said I was disgusting – and if I can’t stick to the programme – I’m such a bad person –”  
Harry put his arm around her and turned her to face him. “Lydia. You are not a bad person. You mustn’t think about yourself that way.”  
“But –”   
“No, please listen to me for a moment. Everyone makes mistakes, it’s normal. But you’re more than your mistakes, Lydia, even really big mistakes. At least, I believe you are. And I believe you’re a good person, too. I promise.”  
Lydia let out another sob at that, and buried her face in her hands. Harry stroked her back soothingly, mumbling nonsense words to comfort her. He pushed her hair out of her face and gave her more tissues – and then he happened to look up, and saw Zayn in the doorway, watching.  
Harry stiffened. Everyone else was supposed to be at lunch. If Zayn was coming to make trouble, Harry would take him to the camp leaders; he would. It was one thing for Zayn to toy with Harry, but another for him to try and upset Lydia.  
But Zayn wasn’t smirking or sneering like Harry had expected. Instead, he was just... watching. His face was unreadable and strange.  
When his eyes met Harry’s, Zayn bowed his head and turned away. Harry was left sitting his arm round Lydia, staring after the boy’s back retreating from the doorway.  
*  
Zayn found him a few days later. Harry was sitting by the river again, enjoying the cool of the dusk. He didn’t hear Zayn padding through the grass until the boy sat down beside him.  
“Why do you do this job?” Zayn asked.  
Of all the things Harry had expected Zayn to say, that was not one of them. He didn't know what to do, so he answered honestly: “Because it’s what I believe in. And I believe I can help people who are in trouble.”  
Zayn didn’t speak for a few moments. He picked at the grass next to him. A few shouts, of other kids playing soccer, drifted towards them from the main part of the camp.  
“Zayn –”  
“I just don’t get you,” Zayn said.  
“I’m sorry?” Harry asked, confused.  
“You did seem like a good guy, even to start with, but I thought you must really just be a bigot or a closet-case, like the rest of them. But then I saw you with Lydia the other day, when she was upset, and you were being so – sweet with her. You reminded me of a few of the teachers I had in school, the ones everyone loved. And you really are good at what you do; you don’t realise but everyone’s always much happier to be in your sessions than any other counsellor’s.”  
“Zayn, I really don’t think –”   
“But you work at this fucking camp –”   
“Language, Zayn, please,” Harry scolded.  
Zayn rolled his eyes at that. “Fine, fine, sorry. You work at this camp trying to teach people not to be themselves. But at the same time you’re so nice. I don’t get it.”  
Harry had no idea what to say to that. He had certainly not expected any of it from Zayn. He also didn’t expect himself to say what he found he was saying: “I don’t get you, either.”  
Zayn looked directly at him for the first time, raising an eyebrow. “How so?”  
The boy’s gaze was heavy, and Harry felt it on him like a physical touch. He squirmed a little. “I – I mean, you act like you’re so sure what we do here is all rubbish. But I know you don’t want to leave. When we, um, caught you, with Sam, I know you told the counsellors you wanted to stay, and you didn’t want me to report you, you know, after last weekend...”  
Zayn was still looking at him, and Harry was almost ready to beg him to stop.  
“So I don’t get you either,” he finished, feeling stupid, ears burning. Why did he say all of that? This was such an inappropriate conversation for him to be having, even more inappropriate than Zayn suggesting that Harry was attracted to him. He was basically encouraging Zayn to talk about questioning the programme right in front of him. He’d gone completely crazy since he met this boy, he thought.  
Zayn flopped back onto the grass. “I want to stay,” he said, “Because my beloved parents told me that they’d kick me out if I didn’t get some sort of therapy, and I have nowhere to live if I can’t live with them.”  
“But you clearly don’t want to change,” Harry said. “What will happen when you go home and nothing’s different?”  
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Zayn said dismissively. “I turn eighteen just a few days after the programme finishes and once I do, I’ll have legal access to this money my grandfather left me when he died. Once I have that, I’ll be able to afford to move out. I’m going to go live with a friend in California, it’s all arranged. I just need somewhere to live until I can get that money, and if my parents had kicked me out I’d have had nowhere to go.”  
“Oh.” Once again, Harry didn’t know what to say.  
Zayn seemed to have gotten bored of the conversation. He produced a roll-up cigarette from somewhere. “Do you mind if I smoke?”  
“Um, no,” Harry said, feeling inexplicably, stupidly worried about Zayn all of a sudden. “Go ahead.”  
Zayn pulled out a lighter, lit his roll-up, and inhaled deeply. His full lips pursed around the cigarette as he did. A moment later, he let out the smoke slowly, blowing it up into the grey-pink twilight sky.  
“If you’re –” Harry started, stopped, started again: “If you’re so sure that – that what we do here doesn’t mean anything, then how – how do you –?”  
“How do I what?” Zayn asked.  
“How do you – cope? With – all this.” He gestured vaguely behind them in the direction of the camp. He had no idea what he was doing. He wasn’t sure he could have stopped this even if he had.  
Zayn laughed. “Oh, trust me, I’ve had much worse. My parents might not have realised I’m gay until recently, but it was always pretty fucking obvious to everyone at my high school. And you know what kids are like, when someone’s different.” He took another slow drag of his cigarette.  
Harry suddenly remembered his own first week in high school. Barely three days in, some sophomore shoved him between classes, spat in his face and called him a twink. He could still remember the shock, then the flood of humiliation, standing in the hallway with another boy’s saliva all over his face. Some of the spit went in his mouth, and even after he’d washed it out with water many times in the bathrooms, Harry had still felt like he could taste it.  
He could still remember the helplessness of knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do to defend himself, because the other kid’s attack wasn’t for anything he had done – it was just because Harry was different, and to this kid, that meant he deserved to be shoved and spat on and called names.  
Harry wondered, for the first time, why this didn’t also apply to Zayn and his desire to be with other men. He supposed it was because Zayn hadn’t been made that way. But how did Harry know that for sure?  
Zayn suddenly stood up next to him, startling him out of his thoughts. He was grateful for the interruption: he wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with all the questions he’d just been considering.  
Zayn dropped his cigarette on the ground and stamped on it. Then he kicked off his sneakers and announced, “Let’s swim.”  
“Swim?” Harry repeated stupidly. Once again, Zayn had managed to totally throw him for a loop.  
Zayn giggled at him, but the sound was sweet and almost... fond? “Yes, genius. In the river, right there, where everyone from the camp always goes swimming? Ringing any bells?”  
Harry flushed, but Zayn was still smiling at him and he found himself smiling back. “Yeah, I know that, thank you. But I haven’t got my bathing suit, and neither have you –” He broke off as Zayn pulled off his t-shirt.  
Seeing the boy’s body in front of him again, after remembering it over and over again for so long, was almost a shock. Harry had started to wonder if he’d made up just how attractive Zayn had been, but to his slight horror the boy was possibly even better looking than he’d thought. In the twilight, Zayn’s torso was the milky pale of a new moon.  
“I don’t care if you don’t,” Zayn said, and Harry had to force his eyes back up to Zayn’s face, away from the boy’s slender arms, the dark nipples on his flat chest, the sharpness of his collarbones. “We’re both men, aren’t we?” Then his hands slid to the button of his jeans.  
Too late, Harry realised he’d fallen into another trap. Zayn was playing with him again.  
“Zayn –” It was supposed to sound angry; it came out begging. Zayn didn’t even seem to hear. With one deft movement, he peeled both his jeans and underwear off, and tossed them aside. Harry felt it like a blow to the chest.  
Zayn leapt into the water, and bobbed back up a moment later, pushing his wet hair out of his face so it lay slick against his head. “Fuck! It’s cold!” He waved a hand at Harry. “Come on, don’t be such a pussy. Come in.”  
Harry panicked. “Zayn, stop it!” he shouted.  
Zayn paused at that. Then, he put his hands on the river bank and pulled himself gracefully out of the water.  
Harry couldn’t help gawping at him. Zayn’s pale, lithe little body was running all over with water: rivulets down his arms, dripping off his fingers; over his shoulders and those collarbones, his chest, his stomach; chasing each other in trails down his slim legs. And, oh God, he could see Zayn’s cock, soft in between his legs against the dark damp hair, and his balls, and Harry was looking, oh God –  
Zayn crouched down in front of him, and Harry just stared at him helplessly. His brain was screaming at him that this was wrong, so wrong, in a voice that sounded not unlike his uncle’s – but his heart was pummelling against his ribs, his skin suddenly pricked in a million goose bumps, and he just couldn’t look away –  
“What’s the matter?” Zayn asked innocently. “I didn’t think it would bother you; we are both men after all, and you said before you weren’t attracted to me.” His eyelashes were spiked together in clumps from the water; his lips wet and oh so enticing, and God help him, Harry was actually thinking about what it would be like to kiss the boy; he was thinking about kissing Zayn.  
“I –” he breathed.  
Zayn’s eyes were challenging, and Harry should tell him to stop; he should tell Zayn to put his clothes back on, and stop behaving so inappropriately; he should take Zayn to the main office right now. He should tell Zayn that he wasn’t attracted to him, he should –  
Zayn rocked forward and pressed their lips together.  
Harry felt it like a lightning bolt striking his mouth and racing through his body. Zayn pulled away after a second, but then he was back, and – oh God, now he was kissing Harry properly, the way men and women kissed on TV and in movies, lips soft and wet and sucking, the way Harry had never kissed anyone before, not even on the few dates with girls he’d been on. Harry could feel those lips everywhere, all over his body, and he couldn’t do anything other than hesitantly, shakily, kiss back.  
As soon as he did, Zayn brought a hand up to cup Harry’s cheek, stroking gently over the cheekbone, and Harry couldn’t help the moan that spilled out of his mouth into Zayn’s. Zayn let out a soft giggle and pulled Harry even closer, kissing him deeper; his tongue touched Harry’s and Harry felt something not unlike the feelings when he prayed in church. Zayn’s hand slid round to the back of his head, fingers sliding through his hair, pulling him ever further into the kiss –  
Suddenly terrified, Harry grabbed the boy’s shoulders and threw him away. Taken by surprise, Zayn toppled backwards and landed on his side on the grass.  
Sheer, white-hot panic was coursed through Harry. What was he thinking? He had just kissed another man; he had just enjoyed kissing another man. He had just done one of the things he knew he must never, ever do – something that was completely unhealthy, unnatural, against God – and he had liked it.  
He leapt to his feet, head spinning and bile rising in his throat, the camp and his entire world lurching dangerously around him as he did. In his near-hysteria, he turned on the only person he could blame for this that wasn’t himself and his own weakness and sickness: Zayn.  
“Why are you doing this?” he roared at the boy on the grass. “What did I ever do to you? Why do you have to play with me like this? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”  
“Harry –” the boy started, but Harry couldn’t listen. If he listened, he would fall again, he knew it; he would take Zayn in his arms and kiss him again; and oh God, that kiss, that kiss –  
“Stop,” he choked, throat closing up and stomach heaving. “I – please. I can’t.”  
“But Harry –”  
Harry registered, dimly, hurt in the boy’s eyes. But he couldn’t do this – he couldn’t. “Zayn,” he gasped. He could hardly speak now. “Please. I can’t. Just leave me alone.” And he did the only thing he fully trusted himself to do at that point: he ran.  
*  
Harry called his uncle from his room the next morning, and told him he was sick and couldn’t work. It wasn’t really a lie: Harry had been awake all night, locked in his small bedroom, pacing. He had had to bolt into the bathroom to vomit a few times. All he could see was Zayn. By morning, he was a quivering wreck; his head was pounding and he could hardly stand.  
James told him to stay in bed until he felt better, so Harry took him at his word. He hid in his room, without leaving, for two days.  
James arranged to have food sent over to Harry’s room at meal times, but it all tasted like cardboard.  
Harry spent blurry hours rocking backwards and forwards on the bed like an animal in pain, staring desperately at the wooden walls. His head and heart pounded Zayn, Zayn, Zayn with all the ferocity of a full marching band. He prayed. Please, help me. How did I get so sick? And am I even sick? How do I know? Please, tell me whether I’m sick or not. I just don’t know, I just don’t know.  
As the sun came up on the second day, Harry realised that he hardly had any idea who he was anymore. He didn’t know why he was at the camp; he didn’t know why the camp even existed. He broke down and cried like a child.  
*  
He had finally fallen asleep some time on the second day, and when he woke up that evening, he managed to eat more of the food his uncle sent over. Perhaps that was why he was feeling more clear-headed, and why he was not particularly surprised when, around midnight, there was a light tap on the door.  
Harry knew who it was. He also knew that, if he answered the door, his life would never be the same again.  
The knock came again, softer this time, more hesitant.  
Harry stood up and opened the door.  
Zayn, standing outside, looked worried, and there was something else too; another emotion making him scrunch up his pretty face. As soon as Harry saw him, he wanted to take the boy into his arms; to smooth away everything that was distressing him.  
“Have you been hiding in here for two days?” Zayn asked.  
Harry nodded. In the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware of how ridiculous that really was.  
Zayn looked him up and down. “Are you – are you okay?”  
“I don’t know,” Harry said truthfully.  
“Harry,” Zayn said, “The other day – when we were by the river, I wasn’t trying to play with you, or whatever it was you said. Okay, I was a bit, and that’s all it was at first, like that time in the car, but – but I do really want this – you – Harry.”  
Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t think he could.  
“If you tell me to fuck off,” Zayn said, “I’ll go back to my room and I’ll never make any trouble for you again, I promise. But first, I just need to ask: do you want me?”  
“I want you,” Harry breathed instantly. He didn’t think he’d ever meant anything so much in his life.  
Instantly, Zayn grabbed the front of Harry’s t-shirt and jerked him forward into a kiss – a kiss that was so different from the slow, almost shy kiss they’d shared by the river. This kiss was desperate and frantic, and Harry was right in it instantly this time; he couldn’t help himself. Zayn was almost biting his mouth and Harry gave back as good as he got, arms wrapping around Zayn’s small waist and pulling him close, his tongue in Zayn’s mouth, his teeth knocking against Zayn’s. A brief flash of rationality flickered his brain – they were still standing in his doorway – they needed to get inside before someone could walk past and see them. He dragged Zayn into his bedroom and slammed the door, fumbled with the lock; then he pressed Zayn up against the wood.  
Zayn pulled away and blinked up at Harry from the circle of Harry’s arms. The boy’s breath was coming in sharp little pants; his eyes were wide and dark, his lips red and wet and already swelling from the force of their kisses. He looked almost like he had that Friday night behind the storage rooms, a night that felt like a memory from another lifetime now – and this time, Harry thought, almost angrily, he looks like that because of me; for me.  
Zayn smiled at him, and then tilted his head back to kiss Harry again. This kiss was slower, but no less passionate: Zayn’s tongue slid against Harry’s like it had been made to do so. Harry’s toes curled against the floor and he clasped Zayn’s waist even tighter, pulling the boy as close as possible, then trying for even closer.  
Zayn moving startled him, almost making him stumble, but he righted himself and realised that Zayn was pushing him back towards his bed in the corner of the room. He should have been terrified. He should have been screaming. Instead, he closed his eyes and walked backwards with Zayn’s pushes, until he felt his legs hit the side of the bed.  
Zayn shoved him down onto the mattress and slid gracefully down next to him. He was stunning, Harry thought, feeling dizzy. How had he managed to resist this for so long? It almost seemed stupid right now that he had even tried.  
Zayn’s hand slid over his hip, and his touch was so hot it almost burned. “Okay?” he murmured.  
Harry nodded.  
Zayn cupped his face and kissed him again. It felt so good, so right, that Harry almost choked up. It didn’t feel wrong, or sick, or sinful; it felt like the most normal thing in the whole world. One of Zayn’s slender legs slid between his, tangling their bodies together, and Harry gave up trying to hold onto any coherent thought. He gave his whole being over to kissing Zayn’s mouth, his sweet face, his neck; to holding the boy as tight as he could against his body, as though they might somehow begin to seep into each other, to merge, to join.  
They kissed for what felt like a million years, and yet no time at all. The camp, the room, even the bed underneath them, faded away. All that existed was Zayn’s body, his lips, his little sighs and pants and soft moans, his hand cupping Harry’s cheek, his other hand stroking Harry’s back. All that mattered was that he kept kissing Zayn; that he never let him go.  
Harry didn’t know exactly when he consciously realised that they were both aroused; everything felt so natural that it wasn’t a surprise at all. But gradually he became aware that he was hard in his pants, that his dick was hot and heavy, and that he could feel Zayn’s hardness too, against his thigh. That, coupled with the memory of how Zayn’s arousal had looked that Friday night a few weeks ago, excited him so much he could feel it behind his eyes, dazzling – and also between his legs, making his cock throb. He had no idea what to do about it, so he attempted to content himself with trailing his lips down Zayn’s lovely neck again, and then, daringly, to those collarbones, licking the dip at the boy’s shoulder.  
Fortunately, Zayn was far more experienced, and he drew away with a groan and glanced down between them at their mutual excitement. Then he fixed Harry with a wicked grin. Harry could only smile back dopily.  
“Are you one of those true-love-waits types?” Zayn murmured. His voice sounded wicked, almost an octave lower than normal. The hand on Harry’s back slid down to just above his ass, pressing them together so that Harry’s dick rubbed against Zayn’s stomach and he could feel Zayn’s even harder against his leg.  
Harry was so turned on that for a few moments he couldn’t even remember how to talk, but when his grasp of language returned to him, he managed to say, “I was waiting for marriage, if that’s what you mean, yeah.”  
“So you’ve never had sex before?” Zayn asked, stroking his lower back. Harry’s skin was burning everywhere that Zayn was touching him.  
“No...” he stuttered.  
“What about jerking off? You must have jerked off,” Zayn said, grinning.  
“Um... a few times...” Harry hardly even knew what they were talking about any more; all he could focus on was Zayn’s hand, and the way he could feel the shape of the boy’s dick against his inner thigh.  
Zayn took him by the shoulders and turned him carefully onto his back. “Well,” he said, his voice and smile becoming positively devilish, “I’d say you’ve got quite a lot of wasted time to make up for, Harry.”  
Then he was crawling down Harry’s body. His hands were suddenly at the crotch of Harry’s jeans, and Harry’s dick jerked so hard that it was almost painful. He was suddenly so aroused he felt light-headed, almost sick. Zayn was undoing his pants and pulling them down.  
Harry thought he might pass out if he looked, but he couldn’t stop himself. Zayn was grinning at the obvious bulge in his underwear. Harry shuddered against the mattress.  
Zayn looked up at him and gave him a smile that entirely too sweet for someone in their current situation. “I know you’ve thought about me doing this,” he said – and the next second, he pulled Harry’s cock out of his underwear with one swift movement of his hand, dipped his head, and swallowed Harry into his mouth.  
Harry yelped out loud, back arching up off the bed and hands clutching desperately at the pillows behind him. Oh God, Zayn was – hisdick was in Zayn’s mouth – and not just that, but Zayn was sucking him, tightening and relaxing his mouth and throat – it was like being milked with wet, burning hot velvet – and Zayn’s tongue was rolling over and over his cock in slow circles, and then sliding down the back, and coming up to run over the head and dip into the slit – nothing had ever felt so good. He had to see, though; he had to see Zayn doing to him what he had done to Sam behind the storage rooms; he managed to tilt his head forward. Zayn’s head was sliding slowly up and down, and oh God, Harry could see his cock in Zayn’s mouth, and Zayn’s gorgeous lips wrapped around his shaft, and it was too much – Harry came suddenly, with a shout, head thrown back, spilling into Zayn’s mouth. Zayn coughed a bit as he did, but recovered quickly – and he swallowed everything; Harry could feel his throat working. It was so dirty and so arousing that he whimpered, twisting his face into the pillows.  
When he came back down to earth, Zayn was sitting up on the bed, wiping his face. Harry could see his own cum on Zayn’s fingers, and a shiver ran through his weak body.  
Zayn smiled at him, and reached out to stroke Harry’s hair away from where it clung to his damp forehead. “That was quick,” he said, but his voice was gentle and fond, and Harry didn’t feel embarrassed at all.   
“That was amazing,” he said, and Zayn smiled again and lay down beside him.  
“You okay?” he asked.  
Harry couldn’t even think about it at the moment. His body was heavy and satisfied, his mind pleasantly blank. He just nodded.  
Zayn cuddled up to him, kissing his cheeks and petting his hair. After a while, Harry gradually noticed that Zayn was still hard, and his own feelings of arousal began to return. He rolled to face the boy, pulled him closer, and began returning his kisses. Slowly, things became heated again, the tension between them beginning to mount.  
“Harry,” Zayn panted against his lips, their foreheads pressed together, “I want...”  
“What is it?” Harry asked softly, stroking the boy’s downy hair.  
“I want... I want to fuck you,” Zayn said. He bit his lower lip, and looked up at Harry, face unsure for the first time. “But we don’t have to – if you don’t want to. I know you’ve never –”  
Harry thought about it. Sex. Proper sex, not just a blowjob. And with another man. The exact kind of sex he’d always believe was just about as wrong as you could get. And yet his cock was stirring between them again at the thought of it, and for some reason, what Zayn was hinting at made him feel hopelessly excited – if Zayn was suggesting what he thought Zayn was suggesting –  
“Do you mean you... you know... you, um, put it –?” He stumbled over the words, both with inexperience and want.  
Zayn nodded. “Yeah. I fuck you as in, I want to put my cock inside you.”  
God, it sounded so filthy when Zayn spelled it out like that. And God help him but – Harry wanted it. His body ached with how much he wanted it.  
“Yes,” he sighed. “Yes, I want you to.”  
“Are you sure?” Zayn asked.  
“Yes. Yes, Zayn, I want it; I’m sure.”  
Still Zayn didn’t move. Harry was rapidly getting hard again, his cock pressing against his stomach, and he wanted Zayn to do something. “Zayn, please.” Daringly, he reached between them and clasped Zayn’s dick through his jeans. It made his own cock throb, and Zayn groaned.  
“Fuck, okay, okay,” he said, sitting up and pulling off his shirt. “Let me get my clothes and you –” He looked down at Harry, and his face was so affectionate that it made Harry’s chest swell with warmth. “You just lie back and relax, babe, okay?” He leaned over and kissed Harry’s forehead, while Harry basked in the feeling of being called “babe” by this beautiful, sweet boy.  
Zayn hopped off the bed and pulled his t-shirt over his head. Harry took the opportunity to admire him properly now they were here and he didn’t have to pretend, and Zayn looked so gorgeous in the low light of his bedroom that he couldn’t help reaching down and running his hand over his own cock.  
Zayn grinned. “You like what you see?” he asked, cocking one hip and pretending to pose.  
“Very, very much,” Harry told him honestly.  
Zayn stuck one finger his mouth and bit it teasingly, laughing. Harry laughed too.  
Zayn pulled off his jeans and underwear, fumbled in the pocket of his pants for something, and then joined Harry back on the bed.  
“If we’re going to do this,” he started, and he sounded nervous again; Harry reached out and gripped one of his arms, trying to reassure Zayn that he wanted this. “If we’re going to do this,” Zayn said, “I can’t just put it in. I’m going to have to put my fingers in you and get you ready; you know, stretch your muscles.”  
Harry nodded.  
“It might hurt a bit,” Zayn told him. “But I’ll use lube – I brought some –” He held up a small bottle, presumably what he had fetched from his jeans. “And once you get used to it, it’ll feel good, Harry; so good, I promise.”  
Harry nodded again.  
“Okay,” Zayn said softly. “Put your knees up for me, and spread your legs.”  
Harry drew in a shaky breath – not nervous, but just suddenly aware how intimate this was; of everything that he was about to show, to give, to Zayn. But Zayn’s eyes above him were huge, blazing and beautiful, like tiger’s eye stones, and Harry trusted him entirely. He did as the boy said.  
Zayn opened the bottle of lube and poured some over his hand. “Spread your thighs more,” he murmured, taking hold of Harry’s legs and gently parting them. Harry looked at the ceiling, trying not to tremble. “Don’t hold your breath,” Zayn told him, and then fingers touched him.  
Harry hissed. “It’s cold.”  
“I know, I’m sorry,” Zayn said. “It’ll warm up in a second.” Then the fingers were back again, careful and soft, at Harry’s hole. He breathed out hard through his nose. It felt strange, but not bad. The muscles quivered, unused to being touched this way.  
Zayn moved two fingers in little circles, coating Harry with lube, and it felt nice. Then Zayn whispered, “I’m going to put one finger inside now, okay? Tell me if it hurts too much and I’ll stop” and then a finger was gently breaching his entrance. It was weird, and it felt tight, but it wasn’t enough to be called painful. Zayn slid his finger in up to the first knuckle, pulled it out and added more lube, and then slid it in deeper. Now it stung a bit, and Harry murmured in discomfort.  
“Are you all right?” Zayn asked, and Harry couldn’t help smiling, in spite of the sting; Zayn sounded so genuinely concerned, and it made him feel cared for.  
“I’m fine,” he said. “It just burns a bit.”  
Zayn kissed his knee. “It’ll get better,” he said. With his other hand, he reached out and took hold of Harry’s cock. Harry groaned out loud, and the discomfort of Zayn’s finger inside him faded.  
Zayn carefully pumped his finger in and out of Harry, adding more lube and sliding a little deeper each time, soothing any pain with his hand on Harry’s cock. It wasn’t bad at all; in fact, with Zayn’s hand on his cock at the same time, it felt pretty good. Having his cock stroked made his muscles clench around Zayn’s finger, and that felt nice, the feeling of something inside him, holding him open. Then, Zayn’s finger slid in deeper than ever and there was a sudden surge of pleasure, making Harry’s cock jump and spurt pre-cum and his body jolt against the bed.  
“Whoa,” Harry panted. “What was –?”  
“That’s your prostate,” Zayn told him, and pressed his finger in again, into that place. Harry moaned out loud; he couldn’t help himself; and his cock twitched and drooled.  
Zayn started sliding his finger in and out, each time pressing it into that spot, and soon Harry was moaning pretty much continuously and pushing back against it, wanting more, more, more. He had never felt anything like this: this feeling of pressure inside him, and the need to have something pushing back against that pressure, but it felt so good. It was like the deepest, most blissful of massages. He rocked his hips to meet the thrusts of Zayn’s finger, whining high up in his throat when Zayn crooked it and dug especially deep into that special place. “Oh God,” he gasped, “More... more...”  
“You can have more,” Zayn said. “I’m going to give you another finger now, okay?”  
When the finger went in, it stung, but when Zayn pressed both against his prostate, Harry forgot all about the pain. Two fingers soon became three, and this hurt more. Harry closed his eyes and tried not to tense up. Zayn stroked his cock again and rubbed his stomach, mumbling, reminding him to breathe.  
Gradually, the pain receded, and all that remained was the feeling of his muscles being stretched, of Zayn’s fingers pressing inside. Again Zayn found his prostate and again Harry jumped against the mattress, crying out.  
Zayn started pumping in and out, and now the stretch of three fingers just felt so good. It felt good when his muscles clenched around those fingers, tight and hard. And of course, Zayn’s fingers touching his prostate was amazing, making his cock quiver and pre-cum leak out of him. Before long, Harry was a shaking, boneless mess on the mattress, unable to do anything but spread his legs ever wider for Zayn’s fingers and push his hips back into the thrusts. He wondered how it would feel to have Zayn’s cock where his fingers were now, and a shudder ran through him.  
“Zayn –” he moaned.  
“Yes?” the boy breathed.  
“Zayn – I want –”  
Zayn ran his free hand over Harry’s chest, brushed his fingers over one of Harry’s nipples, and smiled. “I know,” he said softly. “I know. You can have it.”  
The fingers inside Harry were suddenly pulled out, and he couldn’t whimpering a little, feeling empty and cold without them. But Zayn was slathering his own cock with lube, a look of concentrated pleasure on his face as he did – and then Harry felt the head of Zayn’s cock against his hole.  
“Oh –” he sighed, overwhelmed.  
“Yeah,” Zayn mumbled, giving him a slightly shaky half smile – and then he was pushing inside.  
It burned. It burned a lot. But Zayn’s hands were holding his, and Zayn’s eyes were locked with his, and Zayn was making little choked off moaning sounds as he held himself back from thrusting too hard. It was surreal and it felt impossible and Harry felt like he was falling, but Zayn’s hands squeezed his, grounding him.  
“Fuck,” Zayn hissed. “You feel – fuck.”  
“Zayn,” Harry gasped, unable to say, or even think, anything other than the boy’s name.   
“Harry –” Zayn groaned, and Harry thought his own name had never sounded so good. “Harry – I’m going to move now – okay?”  
Harry nodded – and Zayn moved, and Harry was instantly swept away.   
It was like nothing else in the world. Zayn slowly slid his cock out and then pressed back in, and then out again, and then back in, and Harry could feel it; could feel all of it, deep inside his body. He felt full, so full, and it was delicious, his muscles clenching around the hot hardness of Zayn’s cock. Zayn’s hands came up to grip his shoulders, and Harry was sure he’d have bruises there in the morning, which turned him on even more; the thought of being able to see where Zayn had held onto him. Zayn was swearing and moaning and biting his lower lip, his dark hair damp, sweat running over one of his collarbones and his milky skin flushed, and he was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen. His hands clutched at the boy’s arms, his shoulders, his back, just wanting to hold onto him; wanting to convince himself that Zayn was real.  
One particular thrust struck Harry’s prostate full on, and Harry cried out in an agony of pleasure, seeing a whole universe of stars. Zayn swore and groaned and grabbed Harry’s hips and pulled them closer, changing the angle so he could hit that place again, and now he was hitting Harry hard just where he needed it with every thrust. Harry’s thighs were trembling, his toes curling in the sheets, his muscles seizing around Zayn’s cock and pleasure flooding through his arteries and veins and all his nerves. He scrabbled at Zayn’s body, at any skin he could reach, digging his nails in to keep from losing his mind.  
Zayn was growling, “Fuck” and “Yes” and “Harry”, and his body was hot and lithe and strong, and he was filling Harry all up. All Harry wanted was to be full, as full as he could be, for Zayn to keep doing this forever; but at the same time he felt like he was going to burst out of his skin, the pressure building and building, and Zayn kept on thrusting his cock right against that place that made Harry feel like he was flying, and he needed – he needed –  
As though he could read Harry’s mind, Zayn reached between them and gripped Harry’s cock, making Harry cry out and jerk even harder. “Zayn,” he almost sobbed, muscles clenching wildly.  
“Harry –” Zayn panted. He sounded wrecked, but he managed to stroke Harry’s neck and pump Harry’s cock. “Harry – cum. It’s okay. Cum for me, babe.” His thumb rubbed over the head of Harry’s cock, in the slit, and his cock was pumping against Harry’s prostate, and it was all too much; Harry came with a howl, spurting helplessly between him and Zayn, his heart feeling like it was going to fly up his throat and out of his mouth and his entire body convulsing. He closed his eyes and he felt like he could see the birth of the universe, an explosion massive and blue-hot and sudden in the darkness, and there were smaller explosions happening all through his body, and his blood was roaring in his brain. He clung to Zayn and let his whole body shake.  
He felt Zayn’s own orgasm a few moments later, the boy hissing, “Fuck – fuck – fuck – fuck – fuck –” and thrusting into him deeper than ever before. He could feel the heat inside him and the pleasure of Zayn shooting against his prostate. He whined in the back of this throat, feeling warm and slick, open and over-stimulated.  
Zayn collapsed on top of him, hot and sticky, and Harry blindly wrapped his arms around the boy, clinging to him, trembling, feeling the racing of Zayn’s heart through the boy’s ribs, against his own.  
*  
“You’re not going to freak out on me, are you?” Zayn asked.  
They had finally managed to slide away from each other, to peel their skin apart. Zayn had slid out of Harry – a loss Harry had felt keenly – and wobbled off on shaky legs to get a flannel from the bathroom so they could clean up. Now they were lying side by side on the messy sheets, Zayn smoking and looking debauched and gorgeous, and Harry still trying to come back down to earth.  
Harry thought about it, through the haze in his brain that still hadn’t lifted, but he was too spent to feel anything other than peace. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I am.”  
“Good,” Zayn said, and giggled softly. He drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke out over their heads. Harry turned his head tiredly and watched him.  
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed. He felt open still, completely open and unable to be anything other than honest  
Zayn smiled, a slight pink appearing along his cheekbones. “Nah,” he said, clearly trying to sound flippant, but he looked pleased.  
“Zayn,” Harry said.  
“What is it?”  
“That – that was –”  
“Pretty mind-blowing, right?” Zayn grinned, and Harry nodded seriously.  
Zayn laughed fondly and sat up, reaching over Harry to stub his cigarette out in a mug that was left over from Harry’s dinner. He lay back down and snuggled against Harry’s side, propping his chin on Harry’s chest and looking at him. “Now maybe you understand why I’m pretty happy with staying the way I am, right?” he laughed. He looked extremely cute, and Harry couldn’t help petting his hair and laughing too.  
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I kind of do.” Then he thought about what he’d been planning to say, and his smile faded. “But – I mean. I just don’t – I don’t understand, Zayn. That was – that felt – I mean, it was so... it felt so normal. It felt –”  
“Really right, huh?” Zayn said. “I know how you feel. I felt the same the first time I was with a man. I’d been with girls before and it was fun and all, but then I slept with a guy and I was like, oh. That’s what was missing before.” He laid his cheek against Harry’s chest, over his heart.   
Harry nodded, and gently slipped his arm around the boy’s shoulders. He couldn’t help wondering whether this would have felt so right with any man, or whether part of that feeling came from the fact that it was Zayn.  
“I’m sorry, though,” Zayn said, startling him.  
“Sorry? What are you sorry for?”  
Zayn looked up at him again. “Cos I’ve kind of fucked your life up, haven’t I? I mean, when I first started this, like I said, I kind of was just playing with you. I thought you were hot and all – you are very hot, Harry, and I don’t think you realise – but it was more that I could tell you liked me and I thought it would be funny to mess with you. I didn’t think about what that might do to you because I figured you were just some homophobic asshole. But then –” Zayn lowered his eyes. “Then I got to know you, and I started to really like you, and now – now I guess everything’s fucked up for you.” He blinked at Harry worriedly.  
“I – I don’t know,” Harry said, honestly. “I don’t know what’s going to happen now.”  
Zayn looked at him with big eyes, teeth worrying at his lower lip. Harry had started to notice that was a nervous habit. His heart swelled a little at the thought that he was getting to see Zayn’s vulnerable side, not just the cocky, seductive exterior.  
“I don’t regret it, Zayn,” he said. He kissed the top of the boy’s head. “I don’t regret that this happened.”  
Zayn shuffled upwards and kissed Harry on the mouth, long and dirty and slow. “Good,” he murmured when they finally pulled apart, both slightly breathless again, “Because I don’t either.”  
*  
Everything at the camp seemed different now.  
Harry returned to his regular work. He didn’t think he could go on telling everyone he was sick without his uncle insisting he saw a doctor. But the camp that had been his home for so long, that had once been so familiar, felt strange. The summer heat didn’t seem to reach between the buildings anymore. Harry started at every glance, every time he walked passed someone; he was sure they could all tell something had changed about him. He felt like a spy in hostile territory, and it was only a matter of time before his cover was blown.  
He continued leading his group therapy sessions and supervising the kids when they had free time, generally keeping the camp running smoothly. But when he stood in front of them, helping them think through ways to resist temptation and listing the characteristics of a healthy, heterosexual relationship, he couldn’t help wondering if they knew he was a fraud. If he was standing differently; if his voice ever quivered when he spoke. If they could tell that he now shared experiences they all shared with each other – experiences they were supposed to be learning to leave behind.  
Zayn, of course, was a perfect actor, and in front of the rest of the camp, he behaved as though nothing had happened. Occasionally he would catch Harry’s eyes during a group session, or in the canteen at a meal, but his face remained completely innocent. It was Harry who would have to turn away, trying desperately not to blush.  
During the nights, though, Zayn would slip out of his room and come to Harry’s, and they did things Harry had never known human bodies could do. Zayn let Harry explore, finding all the places that made the boy arch and moan, or bite his lip and growl, or just look at Harry with big, pleading eyes.  
Every time he put his hands on Zayn, Harry felt something inside himself unravelling. It made him afraid, and that feeling wasn’t the only thing to be afraid of. Along with the fears that this should feel sick and sinful but didn’t, and the fears of what would happen if anyone found out, was the knowledge that their time together was limited. The programme lasted six weeks, and they were already well into the fifth.  
Zayn never brought this up, and Harry couldn’t. He was scared, and besides, he already knew he was in far too deep to stop this now. Zayn came every night, almost like he couldn’t stay away, and let Harry explore him. Then he would push Harry back onto the mattress and play him like an instrument, until Harry’s body seemed to sing in tune with the whole universe.  
*  
“If you weren’t working here,” Zayn asked, “What do you think you’d be doing?”  
It was Saturday night, sometime between two and three in the morning. The two of them were propped up in Harry’s bed after yet another long, heady round of sex: Harry’s back against the headboard, supported by the pillows, and Zayn sprawled between his legs, head resting in the crook of Harry’s neck.  
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I never really thought about it.”  
“You must have thought about it once,” Zayn insisted. “You’re not telling me when you were five years old it was your dream to work at a gay conversion therapy camp.”  
Harry laughed softly. “No, but when I was five I wanted to be Spiderman, so.”  
Zayn craned his neck round to look at him. “I don’t think we can be friends anymore, Harry,” he said seriously. “Because Batman is clearly far superior to Spiderman and I don’t want to associate with anyone who doesn’t recognise this.”  
“Don’t worry,” Harry told him, squeezing the small boy gently in his arms. “My appreciation of Batman has increased a lot since I was five.”  
“That’s just as well,” said Zayn, leaning back against Harry more heavily. “Because I’d hate for us to fall out over something like that.” He sounded adorably serious, and Harry couldn’t help tilting his head down for a soft, sweet kiss.  
“Seriously though,” Zayn said, when they drew apart. “What do you think you would do?”  
Harry suspected Zayn was partly asking to imply, as he had taken to doing the past few nights, that Harry should start planning to quit his job at the camp. Harry wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with that kind of decision, but he humoured Zayn anyway. “I really don’t know,” he said. “I’ve always just wanted to help people. I guess I’d do something to help people.”  
“I think you should work with kids,” said Zayn, picking up one of Harry’s hands and lacing their fingers together. “I can imagine you working with kids.”  
“I know nothing about kids,” Harry said, watching their hands tangling.  
“Well,” Zayn said. “You could learn.”  
“Maybe.” Harry wasn’t sure what else to say to that. “What about you, Zayn?” he asked. “What do you want to do?” He also had an ulterior motive for this question. What he really wanted was for Zayn to tell him that, once he got access to his inheritance and left his parents’ house, he was going to be okay.  
“I want to be a singer,” Zayn said.  
Harry was surprised. “I didn’t know you sang.”  
“I do.” Zayn sang a few bars of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. His voice was a jazzy, scratchy falsetto. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine at the sound.  
“Zayn,” he said, “Your voice is gorgeous.”  
“It’s all right.” But Zayn looked pleased. “Still, I know I can’t exactly rely on making a career out of that. I’m going to go to college too. In California.”  
“In California,” Harry repeated. “Where you’re going to live with your friend, once you get your money.”  
“Yeah.”   
“Tell me about your friend. He knows that you’re... well...?”  
“Gay?” Zayn asked. He giggled. “You can say it, Harry. And yeah, he does. We met on a chatroom for gay Asian guys so, yeah.”  
“A chatroom? On the internet? There are internet chatrooms for gay Asian men?” Harry asked. He’d only ever used the internet for emails.  
Zayn laughed. “There's stuff on the internet for pretty much anything, Harry. So yes, there are. That’s where we met, a few years ago, me and jay.”  
"Jay?”  
“Yeah,” Zayn said. “He’s a few years older than me. He was someone I could talk to when I was younger, about how I had to stay in the closet and not tell my parents about being gay; about how school sucked and I used to get beaten up and called a faggot. Anyway, his roommate moved out of their flat in spring to live with some girlfriend, and Jay offered to cover all the rent for a few months and keep the room for me so I’d have somewhere to go when I turn eighteen.”  
“Have you met him in person before?” Harry asked, slightly alarmed.  
Zayn laughed again. “Are you worried I’m going to get abducted by an internet pervert, Harry?”  
“Well,” Harry said, embarrassed. “You never can tell.”  
Zayn was still laughing. His laugh was a gorgeous sound, Harry thought. “Yes, I have met him,” Zayn said. “He’s visited my state several times for work and we met up then. He’s a good guy, really. Don’t fuss about me.” He reached out and pinched Harry’s cheek.  
“Okay, okay,” Harry grumbled. He felt embarrassed still, and also absurdly jealous that there was this other guy, this Jay, that Zayn was clearly so fond of. “It seems like you’ve got everything worked out, anyway,” he said.  
Zayn’s bright smile faded a little at that.  
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said, leaning against Harry. “I’m just doing what I have to do to survive, you know? Sometimes I’m... I’m really scared.” He suddenly sounded incredibly young, almost like a child, and Harry’s heart ached. He wrapped his arms around Zayn and pulled him closer. For the first time, he noticed how small the boy felt in his arms, how delicate.  
“I think you can do anything, sweetheart,” he murmured.  
Zayn made a small, unconvinced noise at the back of his throat.  
“Trust me, Zayn. If you can turn up at this camp and get one of the counsellors to have sex with you in four weeks, I’m pretty sure there isn’t much you can’t do,” Harry said, truthfully.  
Zayn burst out laughing. “You’re so weird, Harry,” he said, and leant up so they could share another kiss.  
“Is that a good thing?” Harry asked.  
“Yes,” Zayn said, nuzzling his nose against Harry’s. “Especially in a place like this where we’re all supposed to be training to be the Stepford wives or some shit – I think weird is a very good thing.”  
*  
The 4th of July came. The camp took a half day off and held a barbecue, with James himself rolling up his sleeves and cooking burgers, steaks and sausages. Zayn, the little monster, took enormous pleasure in meeting Harry’s eyes every single time he took a bite of his hot dog and sliding it in and out of his mouth suggestively, and Harry wasn’t sure whether he was going to die of embarrassment, cum in his pants, or fall down laughing in front of everyone.  
That night, there were fireworks from the town, and they were still going off overhead intermittently even after lights out. Harry could hear the scream of rockets and the explosions that night with Zayn. The boy had Harry on his side and was thrusting into him roughly. Every time Harry closed his eyes, he could see the downpour of coloured lights from the fireworks, going off inside his own skull.  
“Harry –” Zayn nearly growled. “Fuck – you’re so – uh –”  
“More,” Harry pleaded. It was a word he’d started using a lot during his times with Zayn. “Please, Zayn –”  
“I got you, babe,” Zayn groaned, hand tightening on Harry’s thigh, nails digging into the soft flesh. He hoisted Harry’s leg up and the angle changed, so he was going in even deeper, hitting that spot directly with every thrust. Harry whimpered and sobbed and clawed at the sheets underneath him; it was too much, but at the same time it wasn’t enough. He didn’t think it would ever be enough.  
Zayn’s wonderful fingers slid from Harry’s thigh to grip his cock, and Harry’s whole body jerked against the bed like he’d touched a live wire. “Oh – oh God –”  
Zayn’s thumb slid underneath the head of his cock, and he thrust in, hitting Harry just right, and Harry was done; he came all over his stomach, Zayn’s hand, and the mattress, crying out and calling Zayn’s name. Zayn followed a moment later, cursing up a storm like he always did and nipping at Harry’s shoulders.  
They cleaned up slowly, not willing nor able to force their shaky limbs to rush, and then crawled back into the bed together, cuddling up close.  
Tonight, unlike some nights, they didn’t speak. Zayn blinked up at Harry and gave him a gentle kiss, and then laid his head on Harry’s chest and closed his eyes. Harry let his eyes shut too, perfectly content to fall asleep with Zayn in his arms. He was just beginning to drift away, when –  
Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!  
Someone was pounding at the door.  
“Harry!” Oh God. Oh God. That was his uncle’s voice.  
Harry shot out of the bed as though someone was firing bullets into the room.  
“Harry! Are you awake? We’ve got an emergency! One of the kids has been reported missing!”  
Oh God help him, his uncle was outside, and Zayn – Harry looked frantically at the bed as he fumbled for his pyjamas. Zayn was waking up now too, struggling out of the mess of blankets, eyes wild and confused. Harry became aware of the sound of feet running outside, flashlights blinking.  
“Harry!”  
He looked around the room, pulling on his sleep pants, but there was nowhere Zayn could hide; even the wardrobe was too small to contain a person. Maybe the bathroom –  
Zayn was staring at him from the bed. “Harry,” he whispered.  
“Harry!” his uncle shouted from outside. “Harry, I’m coming in!” And the door burst open to reveal James, fully dressed and breathing hard. He took one look at the room in front of him and froze.  
On the bed, Zayn, half under the blankets and quite clearly naked, froze too.  
“Uncle – James,” Harry blurted, no idea what he was going to say, “I –”  
James turned wide eyes on him. “Harry,” he said. His voice was shaking, and Harry felt himself starting to shake too.  
*  
Everything the rest of that night was a blur.  
Harry knew his uncle was shouting, cursing at him in a way he’d never heard his uncle curse before, being held back by Will and Diane, but he had hardly any idea what was being said. He was vaguely aware of James kicking the barbecue over in his rage and the still-glowing coals spilling all over the grass like broken teeth; the counsellors scurrying to put them out before there was a fire.  
He was aware of Zayn being hauled out of his room and dragged away, several more counsellors yelling at the boy, Zayn hissing and spitting at them and telling them all exactly what he had told Harry before, that he thought they were all bigots and closet-cases. Finally Bobby emerged, eventually managing to pacify James, repeating over and over: “Wait until morning, we’ll deal with it in the morning.”  
Harry was shut in his bedroom by a stupefied Will and a more-apologetic-looking Chelsea, who whispered to him that Zayn’s roommate had got up to go to the bathroom after too much soda at the barbecue, noticed that the boy wasn’t in his bed and reported it to the staff. Harry couldn’t even take in this information. His entire body and brain felt numb.  
The next morning, the camp was on lockdown. The kids were nowhere to be seen as Harry was led to his uncle’s office by Chelsea. Harry knew that they would all be in the group therapy room with most of the other counsellors, who would be trying to carry on as normal. He also knew that Zayn would almost definitely be in Bobby’s office, being held until his parents could come and take him away. He had been allowed a second chance last time, but there was no way he would be allowed to remain at the camp now. Not after this.  
Harry had still hardly reacted to what had happened. He felt like he should scream and throw things and cry, but he couldn’t. He felt like he had turned to stone. His secret was out now; everyone knew. He didn’t have any decisions to make anymore about whether to stay at the camp, or where his life went from here; the decision had been taken from him. His life here was over.  
He wondered if maybe the decision had been taken from him the first time he met Zayn.  
Zayn.  
It was only once Harry was left alone in his uncle’s office, Chelsea telling him James would “be along soon”, that the reality of the situation began to sink in. He thought about Zayn, his tiger eyes and his wide smile, the way he laughed, the way his body felt against Harry’s, around Harry’s, inside Harry’s. For the first time since last night, he felt with a dawning sense of horror the true gravity of their situation – and especially the fact that he was certainly never going to see the boy again. It was stupid, and selfish, given that his entire life had just beenruined and Zayn could end up homeless without any access to the money he was owed, but it was the thought of losing Zayn this way that made his eyes sting sharply with tears.  
By the time his uncle arrived, Harry’s tears had dried, but all he could feel now was a simmering anger. He was expecting James to scream and curse at him like he had last night, and Harry was determined not to take things lying down this time. He would give back as good as he got this time, just like Zayn always did; he had nothing to lose anyway.  
But when James came in, he only looked extremely tired, and almost rather sad. He sank into his desk chair with a sigh as though he was eighty years old.  
“What happened, Harry?” he asked.  
“You know what happened,” Harry said. “Zayn and I –”  
“I don’t want to hear details!” Now James sounded angry. He slammed his fist on the desk in front of him. “For God’s sake, Harry!” Then he sighed, and withdrew a little: “What I meant was, what happened to you? How did this happen?”  
“I don’t know,” Harry answered, truthfully.  
His uncle sighed. “Where did I go wrong, Harry? I thought you – I thought you were –”  
“You thought I was what? Your little protégé?” Harry snapped, surprising himself with how bitter he sounded. “Well, maybe I was once, but I’m not anymore.”  
“How dare you talk to me like that?” James shouted. “After everything I’ve done for you!”  
“Everything you’ve done for me? What have you done for me? Brought me out here and trapped me in this place? I never see my family anymore because of you. Did you know my parents think I’m in a cult? Perhaps they’re right; perhaps you’ve brainwashed me –”   
James stormed round the desk and smacked Harry across the face. Harry cried out, more from the shock of the sound than the pain – but the pain came a moment later, exploding in his head. He gaped at the man in front of him. He’d never laid a hand on Harry, even when they’d disagreed.  
“How dare you?” James shouted again. “It isn’t me that’s brainwashed you; it’s whatever sick homosexual influences you’ve exposed yourself to – and now you’ve inflicted those on a boy we were supposed to be treating, and ruined his chances at turning his life around.” Harry almost laughed at that – as if he had been the one to expose Zayn to anything – but he didn’t bother to correct his uncle; there was no point. “Now he’ll have to go back to his parents, who I’m sure you realise we will also have to refund because of all of this –”  
Harry couldn’t believe his uncle was talking about money now. This man had been his hero. Now, Harry hardly recognised him.  
James broke off and sighed. “It’s okay, Harry,” he said, sounding as though it was anything but okay. “I’m sure the – the boy can get treatment somewhere else. And we’ll get you therapy too; not here, of course, but we can get you the help you need.”  
“What if I don’t want help?” Harry challenged.  
James looked at him, sorrowful and – ashamed. Something twisted in Harry’s gut. His uncle was ashamed of him. He felt nauseous.  
“Is that really how you feel, Harry?” James asked. “Do you really, truly believe this isn’t wrong? That this isn’t something sick, and bad, that you need to treat?”  
“I –” Harry started, and then hesitated. What did he believe? He didn’t know. He’d stopped thinking about it; he’d been too lost in Zayn.  
James was quick to pick up on his hesitation. “Exactly, Harry. Like I said, we can get you some help. There are other places I know, people I trust. That’s what you really want, isn’t it?”  
Harry clenched his fists. He thought of Zayn – and then he thought of how Zayn was leaving, how he was never going to see the boy again. He thought of his parents and sister, and about how they didn’t want him anymore. He bowed his head.  
His uncle nodded. “I’ll make some phone calls,” he said, standing up. “We can fix this, Harry. It can be made better.” He rounded the desk without another word and left the room, turning the key in the lock, leaving Harry in the chair behind him, weak and shaking like he had just run a marathon.  
A few seconds later, there was a tap on the window.  
Harry’s head shot up. The window in his uncle’s office wasn’t big, but it was low enough for a person to reach from the ground, and cracked open to let in the breeze. To his surprise, standing at the window, he saw Lydia, knocking on the glass and holding something in her hand.  
Harry got up and hurried over.  
“I thought he’d never leave!” Lydia said, as he approached. “I’ve got something for you; letter from Zayn!” She held out her hand, and Harry saw she was clasping a folded piece of paper. His heart leapt.  
“His room’s next to mine and he told me what happened while he was packing his things to go,” Lydia explained. She pushed her hand through the gap in the window and Harry took the paper from her.  
“Lydia,” he started, “Thank you – I –”  
“I have to go,” Lydia interrupted. “We’re doing group therapy; we’re not supposed to know anything’s going on. I told them I needed the bathroom and I’ve been waiting here for nearly ten minutes; they’ve probably noticed I’ve been gone too long. I’m sorry, I have to go!” She gave Harry a last sympathetic smile, and then she was off, tearing across the grass.  
Harry watched her go. She had seemed so sure, in all their sessions, that she wanted to complete her treatment, and he remembered her getting so upset at the thought of not managing to do so. Still, the programme couldn’t have been a complete success, if even now she was willing to bring Zayn’s letter to him. Only six weeks ago that would have seemed like a failure, but it didn’t anymore.  
Zayn’s letter. Harry unfolded the paper with shaking hands, and read:  
Dear Harry,  
I wanted to send you a note because I know we won’t get the chance to talk to each other. I wanted to tell you not to worry about me. They’re sending me home, like I thought they would, and I’m sure my parents will kick me out almost straight away, but I’ve already called Jay and he said I can move in a bit early. He’s even paying for a Greyhound bus ticket from near my parents’ house to California, and he’s going to meet me when it gets in. My parents will let me get my stuff at least, so I’ll be able to find all the bank details so I can get my inheritance when I turn eighteen. I’ll be fine. I don’t always know what I’m doing but I do know I can sort this out!  
I also wanted to say, I don’t know what your uncle and the other counsellors are going to tell you, but I’m sure it’ll be something like you’re sick and wrong and they need to fix you too – I wanted to tell you not to listen to them. You said that being with me made you feel normal. Don’t let them make you forget about that. I told you before that I thought you could have such a good life outside of this place and I still do. You said I could do anything, but I think you can too. Remember, you’re Spiderman.  
Yours,  
Zayn  
Yours.  
Harry traced the lines of Zayn’s writing with a trembling hand, fingers pausing on the letters of the boy’s name, and that word. That one word. Yours.  
He cried again, the letter clutched to his heart, but this time it didn’t feel hopeless. It felt like a release.  
*  
Harry was kept in his uncle’s office all day. In the evening, Chelsea appeared, led him back to his room and brought him some dinner.  
“Mr Horan wants me to tell you he’s in the middle of arranging for you to see a doctor upstate,” she said. “Things should be finalised in the next few days.”  
“Where’s Zayn?” Harry couldn’t help asking. “Is he okay?”  
Chelsea bit her lip, looking nervous. Then she said, “Zayn’s gone. His parents came and got him this afternoon. They were very upset. I don’t – I hope things work out for him,” she finished, her voice trailing off.  
Harry nodded, weakly. He had known he wouldn’t be allowed to say goodbye, but the thought that Zayn was already gone made his heart hurt. He thanked Chelsea and she gave him a sad smile before shutting the door.  
Harry couldn’t eat, or think about sleeping. He sat on his bed, Zayn’s letter clasped in his hands. His uncle was going to send him to see some doctor who would poke and prod him and tell him how ill he was and do God knows what else. And then... he didn’t know what then. Would he come back to the camp? Would his uncle cut him off? Where would he go if that happened? But could he face life at the camp even if he was allowed back, when he would see Zayn everywhere?  
He closed his eyes and tried to pray. God, please give me strength to endure this – this –  
He reached for a word, but couldn’t think of one. He didn’t know how to continue. He didn’t know what he was praying for.  
A sudden urge came over him to call his mother. To hear her voice. To be that child again who could hide on her lap or behind her legs. For her to tell him everything was okay. He picked up his phone, but once again, he didn’t know what he could say. I don’t know who I am anymore, Mom. I don’t know who I am anymore.  
Talking over the phone wasn’t going to be enough. He wanted to see his mother face to face. More than that – he wanted to go home.  
*  
Early next morning, so early the sky was still a pale grey, Harry gathered his packed suitcase and slipped out of his room.  
The camp was cool and silent; the only sound bird song. The grass was glistening with dew. Harry walked swiftly and quietly to his car and shoved his case in the trunk. Then he slid into the front, fastened his seat belt and stuck the key in the ignition.  
Before he turned it, he took a look at the buildings of the camp. Part of him seemed to believe he was just running an errand to the shops and would be back soon.  
He turned the key and backed out of the driveway, pulling out onto the road into town. He thought of his trip into town with Zayn, the boy sitting quiet on the seat next to his. He reached down and touched the pocket of his jeans, felt the folded paper of Zayn’s letter tucked inside.  
The sun was beginning to rise as he drove through the town, and the world was starting to wake up. People were opening their stores, walking their dogs. Other cars began to join his on the road.  
As he left the town, he sped up. It was a long drive back home, many hours and many thousands of miles. He had no idea what he was going to say when he arrived. He imagined himself ringing the doorbell with his suitcase, and his mother answering, but he didn’t know how he would greet her. Perhaps he would just fall against her and cry. But if he did, he knew she would hold him until he felt strong again, because she was his mother.  
The sun was rising properly now, the sky above the road turning orange and pink. Harry put his foot down on the gas and drove.


End file.
